It was 1937. Dad was ten years old. Arkansans were suffering through the Great Depression. Food was in short supply. As were shotgun shells.
Dad took his gun from the peg above the door and fished one shell out of the box. Shotgun shells were cardboard in those days. Dad took only one shell that day for two reasons - he placed a premium on marksmanship but also couldn't afford to waste.
North-central Arkansas is hilly. The Ozarks are dark and rugged. Up he climbed, down he fell. Up. Down. Up. Down. Lots of sweat on his brow, even though it was mid-December. The shotgun got heavier with each step.
Dad finally reached the crest of a granite outcrop and peered over. In the adjacent field, only 40 yards away, he could see six turkeys sitting atop six cedar fence posts.
Six! All in a row!
Dad formulated a plan. He figured that if he swung the gun in a semi-circular motion while firing, the lead pellets would hit several of the turkeys. Maybe as many as four or five. Maybe all six. Food on the table. How proud Mom and Dad would be!
Dad cocked the gun. He clinched his teeth and swung from right to left as fast as he could and pulled the trigger. Bang!
He shot a hole in the seat of his pants.
Legend or myth?
Who knows. Who cares.
Dad died in 1996 but his stories live on.
He was a magical story-teller. I'm not sure which stories were true and which ones were made up. I really don't care. (Though I seriously doubt that he shot a hole in the seat of his pants.)
What I cherish most is the fact that he told them. He cared enough about my brother and me to talk with us about his childhood and his own unique experiences as a boy.
We learned about rural Arkansas. The Depression. Farming. White River floods. Cows. Deer antlers. Peaches. Chickens. Snakes. World War II. Poverty. Tuberculosis. Mountain medicine. Humor. Whittling. Music. Flying squirrels. Firearms. Tomahawks. Hiking. Jokes. Raccoons. Possums. Moonshine. Really odd people.
I believe in the power of family stories. Not only because they add color to own our lives, but because they teach our children that we are resilient people. RESILIENT PEOPLE. Families are resilient institutions worthy of celebration.
We all have holes in the seats of our pants.
That's because we are part legend, part myth.
The Ozarks
Will think about your dad as we head to Arkansas ourselves this weekend; I'll fortunately be spending time with my dad during our visit. Good times. I never take them for granted.
ReplyDeleteHow close was your father's home to Mountain Home? You should have come with our AP Environmental students! Beautiful country. And a great story!
ReplyDeleteWonderful story! I couldn't agree with you more regarding the power of family stories and how they can be excellent testaments to resilience.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing. There is so much joy in sharing about our families!!
ReplyDeleteMy grandfather was born in 1900, the day of the Galveston flood/hurricane. Because my dad was the youngest child and I am the youngest child, my grandfather was "old" as far back as I can remember. However, my dad tells stories of a young, adventurous rancher/educator that raised his family on the Brazos River. Through the stories, my grandfather comes alive to me!
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